


I Have No Regrets

by MYuzuki



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: (this generally takes the form of swear words because bilingual cursing amuses me XD), Athena is not the best narrator, Athena is pretty much a hot mess, Bakery, Baking, Bisexual Character, Empathy, F/F, Family, Gen, How Do I Tag, I used to be better at tagging i swear, Irish Language, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mood Swings, Multiple Bisexual Characters, Mutants, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Parent-Child Relationship, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Single Parents, Substance Abuse, Unreliable Narrator, biromantic character, but for Athena only - everyone else gets third-person pov, gratuitous use of medication, in the form of medication, kind of, which is why we have alternating POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-17 04:03:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11267550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MYuzuki/pseuds/MYuzuki
Summary: Athena O'Brien runs a bakery. She’s also a mutant, gifted (or perhaps cursed) with empathy, but she has absolutely no interest in the drama that seems to go along with being different; she has plenty of insanity in her life already, thank you. But when people suddenly show up asking questions about her partner Marissa’s daughter, she finds herself suddenly embroiled in a vicious battle where the stakes are almost too high to bear.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I'm going to try something new here and have my massive starting author's note at the end of the first chapter, so you don't have to put up with me prattling on for multiple paragraphs until after you've already seen the first chapter. All I'll say for now is that this fic is OC-centric, like pretty much all my stories, but that Charles and Erik will be showing up in the very near future and will also be a primary focus in the story. ;) 
> 
> Also, on an entirely unrelated note, the bakery in this story is named in honor of the bakery I one day hope to open with one of the most important people in my life. I don't know if you'll be reading this, but if you are, I couldn't think of any other name for the bakery in this fic, so I stole the name of ours. Sorry. XD

****

* * *

 

 **Chapter 1**  

* * *

When I first woke up, it seemed like any other ordinary day. Well, if you can count it as 'day' when it's still dark outside and not even the up-at-the-crack-of-dawn songbirds are awake yet.

But I'm a baker, so rolling out of bed at three or four in the morning isn't unusual for me. It's actually more unusual for me to sleep in past six, and I literally cannot recall having ever slept in past noon, at least not when in good health. There had been a couple times when my low-grade asthma had reacted excessively badly to springtime pollen counts, and one other time when the smoke from a fire in the foothills had made my lungs seize up almost completely when I'd made the mistake of trying to go outside when the ash was blocking out the sun, but things like that aside I was generally in good health and out of bed in a timely manner.

But I digress. I woke up sometime after three a.m., and quickly showered and got dressed. One plus side of being self-employed, there was no requisite uniform; I could just throw on a comfortable shirt and pants and tie my hair back and that was it. And since I lived in the studio above the bakery I owned, the commute was similarly stress-free.

And the work itself was great, too. I mean, obviously I enjoy baking, otherwise I wouldn't have opened up a bakery alongside my friend Marissa. The early hours didn't bother me, and if my back sometimes got a little achey from standing and lifting all day...well, at least I could indulge in my fondness for sweets and have a little fun experimenting with new recipes to make it up to myself.

It was later on in the day, when other _people_ came into the picture....that was always when things got harder for me.

Because as much as I love the bakery I run with Marissa, and as much as I love baking itself, dealing with _people_ has never been something I enjoy.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not like a psychotic shut-in or anything like that. I just...have a sensitivity, one that makes it difficult for me to be around groups of people. Especially people who are awash with strong emotions. 

I didn't always have a name to call this sensitivity. I always just said that it was my “weirdness”, and left it at that. As I grew up and got more curious, I discovered that my weirdness has a name: empathy.

Empathy. A noun, meaning _the ability to understand and share the feelings of another_. In my case, this occurs in a literal sense and can be a bit extreme; my ability allows me to sense other people's emotions, and even feel them as if they were my own. Which can be troublesome in and of itself, actually, because if I pick up on someone feelings and they're especially powerful...well, then those feelings can override my own.

Those moments are the scariest. Where I lose track of what I feel, who I _am_.

They diagnosed me as having _acute stress disorder_ or _social anxiety disorder_ with some _cyclothymic disorder_ on top. And finally there was one last specialist who diagnosed me with what he seemed to feel was a very severe case of bipolar disorder.

If we lived in a normal world, I probably would have been given a few prescriptions for various sorts of medications that would “stabilize” me; a.ka. leave me processing life at half-speed and stuck in a perpetual state of depression and monotony.

I mean, I was _still_ given a whole slew of prescriptions, anyway, because regular doctors didn't want to acknowledge that my problem wasn't really a disease or mental illness but simply a strange genetic quirk. They didn't believe me when I said that there was nothing wrong with me, not in the way they thought. And if my doctors and I had been having those arguments even just a decade in the past, I'd have been shit out of luck.

But two years before I was born, something happened that changed everything. And now they call special gifts like mine “mutations”. Which to me doesn't sound that much more appealing than being diagnosed with a “disorder”, but what the hell do I know. I hadn't even set foot on American soil until 1980, after my parents had been killed in an IRA riot and a family friend had absconded with me overseas in an attempt to flee the bloodshed and start a new life; I certainly wasn't particularly intelligent or anything, and if everyone else said that mutations were the real deal, I figured they must be right.

It certainly explained some of the stranger people I'd encountered in my twenty-five years of life.

And more importantly, it explained my ability, my empathy. And it explained Marissa's knack for knowing if someone told a lie or was dishonest. She'd always tried to brush it off as a skill for reading people; she said it body language and gut instinct. But she'd never been wrong, not ever, and we'd eventually realized that her little gift, like mine, was a mutation, too. 

Our mutations aren't big, or showy, or impressive. But they are useful, sometimes. I can spot an angry and disruptive asshole from a mile off, and if I'm having a _good_ day I can even manipulate his emotions to calm him down. Marissa can always tell when someone's not being straight with her, and on a _good_ day she can compel someone to tell her the truth about any topic she chooses. Didn't help her much when her boyfriend kicked her to the curb because he didn't want to be responsible for the bun in her oven, but that's not here or there, I guess.

On a _bad_ day, I feel like I'm totally losing my mind and I have trouble focusing, while Marissa can't even tell a fib herself without getting violently ill. It's rare that we have good or bad days; most days are fairly standard and...well, ordinary.

Anyway, it was an _ordinary_ day when I got up in the morning. It continued to be an ordinary day as I went downstairs and got started on a batch of vanilla cupcakes. It was still an ordinary day when my morning assistant Teresa came in and took her position behind the cash register after flipping the sign on the front door to OPEN.

It was even still an ordinary day when customers began trickling in, bringing with them their morning appetites for coffee and pastries; they also brought with them their morning emotions, which were trailing along beside them like those funny little storm clouds you see hanging over people's heads in kid's cartoons. Some people were groggy or cranky in the mornings, others chipper and let's-get-to-it.

I sensed all of it, from everyone, but managed to keep those feelings from swamping me and reducing me to a gibbering mess. I poured energy into my mental shields, which kept the emotional noise to a low hum in the back of my mind. That I needed to focus on mixing three different batters at once while keeping an eye on a batch of scones in the oven at the same time also helped distract me, at least until a family with six kids barreled in through the door and assaulted me with their bright and noisy emotions.

The jumble of emotions was so intense at first that I fumbled with the tray of scones as I pulled it from the oven, nearly sending half the batch skidding off the tray towards the linoleum floor. Thankfully, I managed to recover in time to regain my footing and right the tray, setting it carefully on the counter before excusing myself to the back room before I could really lose my shit.

I was sitting on a step stool, wedged in between massive bags of flour and a gigantic tub of sugar, when Teresa scurried into the storage room looking for me.

I was hunched over, taking deep breaths and trying not to puke as I struggled to sort through the emotions and sensations pinging around inside of me _-excitement, boredom, hunger, sugar-rush, irritation, exhaustion, acceptance, curiosity, and a flurry of others that flitted around too fast for me to catch and identify, with my own feelings lost somewhere in the mix-_ and only looked up when Teresa's emotions _-anxiety and nervousness tinged with worry-_ somehow wormed past my already-fraying mental shields.

“What's wrong?” I asked, hating how weak and shaky my voice sounded.

Teresa gave me a once-over, as if gauging whether or not to speak based on how pathetic I looked.

“What's wrong?” I asked again, this time more sternly, trying to put some I'm-your-boss-do-as-I-say into my tone.

Evidently it worked, because Teresa swallowed hard, then answered. “There are two men here,” she said in a low voice, her gaze darting back out at the main storefront and then back to me. “They said they wanted to speak to Marissa.”

I blinked, then frowned, my empathy-induced nausea receding as my own worry and suspicion rose up and drowned out the foreign emotions crowding my system. “Marissa's at home with her daughter right now,” I said slowly, glancing at my watch at be sure.

And, yep. It was not quite eight thirty a.m.; Marissa would be pouring little Kaylee a bowl of cereal right now. I distractedly wondered whether today was a Fruit Loops day or a Raisin Bran day (or was it Wednesday that was Raisin Bran day now?), then shook my head to clear my thoughts. “Two guys,” I repeated.

“Yeah,” Teresa said with a nod. “One guy's tall and wearing a leather jacket, and the other guy's in a wheelchair wearing a fancy suit.”

I stared at her, at a loss for what to say. “Huh,” I said at last, just to fill the silence. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?” Teresa echoed, looking confused as she glanced out from the storeroom again. “So, should I tell them to come back later, or...?”

I chewed on my lip, then sighed. I _really_ didn't want to go back out to the main portion of the bakery again; the second I did, all those loud emotions would start battering at my mental shields again. But even so...

“Nah, don't worry about it,” I said, waving a hand dismissively and trying sound nonchalant. “I'll talk to them. You mind the till like normal.”

Teresa's relief was so potent that it nearly knocked me over as I stood. “Thank you,” she said gratefully, then bolted back out to the counter. “Miss O'Brien will be right out,” I heard her say to whoever was waiting.

“Thank you very much,” a polite-sounding voice replied; the accent sounded nice and fancy and British. “We'll just wait over here.” It was certainly a more refined-sounding accent than the rough Irish burr from my childhood that crept into my voice whenever I lost my temper or got too drunk. Granted, I hadn't been _that_ drunk in years, not since before Marissa's pregnancy, back in sophomore year at SFSU, but I digress. My point is this: his voice sounded nice and friendly. And after a moment of concentration as I followed after Teresa, I managed to weed through the various emotions floating around in the bakery and locate the tendrils of emotion that belonged to the owner of that voice.

There was some sort of interference, like he had mental shields of his own, but I did manage to pick up on curiosity, anticipation, and something that felt a bit like familial concern but not quite; there was also a strange sort of tranquility, a calmness and serenity that I couldn't quite get a grasp on. It was an emotional cocktail that puzzled me, and the puzzle only became more baffling when I came back out saw that the owner of the polite voice and the calm emotions was a bald man in a wheelchair with clever eyes and a kind face.

Standing slightly behind the man in the wheelchair was, just as Teresa had said, a tall man in a brown leather jacket, and where the first man's expression was contemplative and compassionate, this man's expression was alert and watchful, his keen eyes scanning and roving, taking in everything around him. Even his body language was that of someone ready to jump into action at any moment, simultaneously loose and tightly wound all at once. His emotions were easier to pick up than his companion's; wariness, worry, frustration, and all of it wrapped up in a sort of bemused acceptance and affection.

I didn't know what the hell to think about him, either.

I had already been inclined to be distrustful because they were two strangers asking after Marissa, _my_ Marissa, and the conflicting emotions I was sensing from them only increased my trepidation.

But still, I'd told Teresa that I'd talk with them, and so I would, regardless of the anxiety threading through my own emotional grid.

“Good morning,” I said as I went over to the table in the corner where they were waiting; I made sure to plaster my customer service smile on and put extra how-may-I-help-you juice into my voice. “Teresa said you wanted to speak with me?”

They both looked over at me in the same instant, which raised the hairs on the back of my neck while also sparking something similar to aggravation; this was my business, dammit, and I didn't like feeling so defensive in my own place. I owned SweetHearts Bakery and ran it with Marissa and I hated that I felt at a disadvantage in what was literally my own home territory.

“Can I help you?” I asked, and this time my voice was considerably more frosty. Like, middle-of-Alaska-I-think-we're-going-to-die-in-this-blizzard frosty.

My icy tone seemed to amuse the sharp-eyed man, a slight smirk turning up the corners of his mouth as he exchanged a look with his companion and arched an eyebrow

The bald man shook hid head slightly, before looking back to me. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with us,” he said cordially. “My names is Charles Xavier, and this is my associate Erik Lensherr. We came here today hoping to speak with Marissa Reynolds; I was told that she works here?”

I bit my tongue hard to keep from snapping out my knee-jerk response, which was to ask _Told by who?_ and then go track down said informant and let them know just how displeased I was about them sharing my friend's personal information with total strangers. Honestly, was I the only person left who valued privacy?

Instead, I took a moment to think of a less hostile response and only spoke once I was sure that I was in control of my emotions and not the other way around.

“Marissa is my partner,” I told them. “My business partner,” I clarified at their inquisitive looks. Never mind that I was closer to Marissa than I was to anyone else, and that we were practically raising her daughter together because the asshat who'd knocked her up couldn't be bothered to care about the baby he'd given her (who was now the most adorable five year-old in the universe, and yes, that is an entirely objective opinion). I did, in fact, love her, my Marissa, to the point where sometimes I wondered how my heart could hold that much affection without bursting.

But I digress again. Like I said, I have trouble focusing sometimes. Where was I? Ah, yes...

“She doesn't come in until later,” I told the two men. “You're welcome to wait until she gets in,” I tacked on, making it clear from my tone of voice that they wouldn't _actually_ be welcome but that I'd put up with it if I had to.

“That's very considerate of you,” Xavier replied. “But we couldn't possibly impose upon you for so long. We'll come back later.” He moved to push himself away from the table, the wheels of his chair squeaking on the floor.

“Oh, don't be ridiculous, Charles,” Lensherr said, his voice amused and exasperated all at once. “We've come all this way, we might as well wait until she arrives.”

“What an interesting change of pace,” Xavier remarked. “ _You_ suggesting a patient course of action.”

“Entirely your fault,” his companion replied. “Keeping me cooped up in that stuffy mansion of yours all the time.”

Xavier rolled his eyes as if that was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. “You're hardly a prisoner. As a matter a fact, I seem to recall that just last month I had to have Hank fly me to Marrakesh to pick you up after that nonsense in the bazaar. How much was the cost of your bail again?”

Erik snorted. “That fight really wasn't my fault.”

Xavier made a noncommittal sound. “Of course it wasn't,” he said, his face so carefully empty of expression that it was borderline hilarious. 

I, meanwhile, felt about ten steps behind in the conversation, and took a couple physical steps away from their table. “I need to get back to work,” I said uncertainly, trying to ignore the confusing feelings wafting off the two of them. “Let us know if you want anything to eat while you wait.”

“Thank you,” Xavier called out after me, and his companion echoed the sentiment although his tone was more sarcastic.

 _What the hell is going on?_ I wondered as I hustled my ass back around the counter and returned to the kitchen area, taking a moment to shift the scones from the baking tray to a display platter before I passed them to Teresa so she could put them in the case.

_What do these guys want with Marissa?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here's that obnoxiously long author's note I promised. XD
> 
> I would like to first of all say that this fic, like so many of my story ideas, attacked me out of nowhere and kept pestering me until I sat down and started plotting it out. That being said, as I sat down and started working on, I realized that it's not really a typical X-Men fic? Like, there'll be some Cherik eventually, but this story is predominantly a story about family and love and stuff. With attempted kidnappings and explosions and drama thrown in, because that's apparently just how my brain works. The main focus of the story, aside from Charles and Erik who are sort of secondary protagonists I guess, is going to be on some OCs. Again, not surprising, since OCs are basically my bread and butter. Also, the two main original characters, Athena and Marissa, are going to end up romantically involved; this doesn't strike me as a very big deal because love is love, but I figured I ought to give everyone a head's up now regardless just to be on the safe side because I know some people Just Aren't Into That. (Although if someone is okay with the m/m Charles/Erik pairing, I see no reason for why an f/f pairing would spark any issues, but what do I know? XD) There's also a five year old thrown into the mix, because I've been thinking a lot about kids and parenting lately and I want to explore the dynamics of that in a story involving mutants and both parental figures being women and...yeah. It'll be fun! ;D
> 
> So, basically this story will have all sorts of little layers to it, and hopefully I can pull it off because in my head it seems great, but sometimes these things don't always translate well into writing. But I'll give it a shot! :D
> 
> Also, this story, will be written in alternating POV, with the main character (Athena) having her sections in first-person, while everyone else has perspective written in third-person. Anyone who's read my Originals fic, Inevitable, know the sort of style I mean. I do this both because it's a comfortable writing style for me and also to show that Athena, while awesome, does not always have a clear perspective on things and that might affect the narrative. XD


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where we try out a different perspective. ;) Charles and Erik, mostly, which is an interesting change of pace because their perspective of things is going to be a little more reliable than Athena's, largely just because Athena (on account of her occasional emotional/mental instability) does not always notice everything in a normal fashion; she has yet to truly get her powers under control, and so they mess her up quite a bit, which by extension messes up her portions of the narrative. And I know that might be annoying to some, but I find the idea of an unreliable narrator extremely fascinating. ;)
> 
> Also, something in this chapter is going to read like possible hinting at Charles/Athena. Let me state right now: NOT GONNA HAPPEN. It's just a case of their mutations reacting to one another or some such thing. I repeat, there will be no CharlesxOC romance here, I'm all about the Cherik in this fic. XD
> 
> Also, a trigger warning for what is almost definitely a gratuitous use of medication about halfway through the chapter.

**Chapter 2**

* * *

Charles wasn't sure what to make of the woman who owned the bakery. Well, _co_ -owned; he'd inferred from their brief conversation that she shared it with the very woman he and Erik had come here to find.

Or rather, the mother of the young girl they'd _actually_ come here to find.

He hadn't expected to find the bright light of a mutant mind in the form of a five year old child when he'd used Cerebro yesterday morning. It was rare but not unheard of to find a twelve or eleven year old, children who were on the cusp of puberty and therefore susceptible to whatever genetic or hormonal flux usually triggered the activation of their otherwise latent mutations.

But for a child under the age of ten to show up so clearly during one of his routine searches? He didn't know what to think of it, and so he'd decided to investigate. At which point Erik had taken it upon himself to accompany him, citing a need to get away from his responsibilities at the mansion for a time. Charles had a suspicion that Erik's reasoning had more to do with making sure that he, Charles, didn't get sucked into any more disastrous life-threatening situations than any real desire to shirk his duties as a sometimes-language teacher at the Institute, but Charles had made a promise, to himself and to Erik, to never probe his friend's mind for answers without explicit permission.

It was an easy enough promise to keep, especially when the alternative was to see the person he cared most deeply for wearing that hateful metal helmet.

So he allowed himself to only brush up against Erik's mind occasionally, a simple confirmation of his presence that he always seemed to need even when the man was sitting right across from him, but he never delved any deeper.

Which was why he couldn't be entirely sure how Erik felt about this little trip to California. On one hand, a potential recruitment mission with just the two of them invoked memories of years ago, of a time when the two of them were just finding their footing in a brave new world. A time when Charles had still had the use of his legs, had still had his hair, and had still been in possession of a faith in humanity that bordered on painfully naive.

He no longer had his legs or his hair, and his faith in humanity, while still strong, was now tempered by more trauma and betrayal than he cared to recall.

But still, he persisted. Because the ones he wanted so badly to protect deserved nothing less.

In any case, there was something about the slender woman that had him intrigued, and it wasn't just that she wore a Pat Benatar shirt underneath her pale blue apron. At first glance, she had seemed average enough; long ash brown hair tied back in a messy bun and a slender build, with a slight dusting of flour and sugar on her hands and arms that came from all the baking she presumably did during the day.

It was her eyes that had first captured his attention. An interesting gray-green color, they'd nearly stopped his heart in his chest with the emotional intensity of her gaze. He couldn't have described the sensation in words if asked, but there was something about her gaze that was arresting; he wondered if the feeling was similar to the frozen state of a deer in the street as a truck barreled towards it: mesmerized and terrified and awestruck in equal measure, all the while knowing that something was hurtling towards you and it couldn't stopped.

And then she'd blinked, and feeling had vanished almost entirely, the strange intensity of her eyes lost as she'd become suspicious and wary as they'd asked to speak with Marissa. It had been like some sort of wall going up behind her gaze. It had been interesting enough that he'd allowed himself a brief moment to indulge in his curiosity; he'd reached out with his telepathy, intending to simply brush up against this woman's mind and figure out what it was about her that had affected him so strongly.

And he'd encountered...nothing.

Or rather, not _nothing_ , precisely. He discovered what could only be described as a wall of white noise; mental static, as it were. And within that static were occasional flashes of something more, glimpses that were bright and frenetic and almost dizzying. But as he tried to chase down those snatches of brightness he came up against just more of that frustrating mental static, the white noise that blocked him out.

After a moment of testing the solidity of that block, he could only come to one conclusion.

Athena O'Brien had mental shields.

They weren't like his own, which he'd always envisioned as being more like mental fences and maybe the occasional blast door when he was having a rough day, but even so the very presence of those shields in her mind raised some very interesting questions.

He turned back to Erik once she left, returning to whatever work she had going on behind that plastic counter with its glass cases of pastries. He opened up his mouth to voice his thoughts on the O'Brien woman, then reconsidered.

While he found the idea of O'Brien having mental shields intriguing, there was a strong likelihood that Erik would not feel exactly the same. No, Erik didn't view such things the way Charles did; where Charles was curious and inquisitive, Erik was wary and watchful. He would view the woman's mental blocks as something suspicious, a potential threat.

Erik had been absurdly intense lately, when it came to potential threats. Particularly when it came to threats against Charles.

Charles wasn't sure, but he believed that Erik's sudden bursts of over-protectiveness stemmed from his continuing grief and regret over the deaths of his wife and child in Poland. He had left the mansion after the defeat of Apocalypse but had, as promised, returned to Charles and the others after some time had passed; he had, Charles assumed, waited until the grief and guilt has lessened to the point where he could function without indulging in fantasies of mass homicide.

Whatever his reasons for going away and coming back, Charles was certain that Erik reacted to potential threats in much the same way he always had, and so he decided to keep his discovery of Athena O'Brien's mental shields to himself, at least for the time-being.

She wasn't, he was sure, any sort of real threat to him or Erik; she'd been suspicious during their short conversation, but not overly hostile. She hadn't liked the way they'd asked after her business partner, that had been clear, and he couldn't help but wonder if they were just business partners or something more, but all in all she'd seemed to be exactly what she looked like: a twenty-something woman struggling to run her own business and wondering what the hell the two strange men in the corner booth wanted.

* * *

I considered calling Marissa at home to let her know that two strange men were here asking for her, but in the end I didn't. I probably should have, but a glance at the clock reminded me that _Animaniacs_ would be on right now, and interrupting Kaylee's morning cartoon time was a special kind of stupid that I did not want to be part of right now; besides, Marissa would have to leave Kaylee at daycare when she came in to work, and I wouldn't be able to pick her up until I left, so I figured it was better to let them both stay at home until the usual time.

I was also starting to come apart at the seams from too much emotional overload, and probably would not have been able to speak coherently even if I had called.

My shields had held up until about twenty minutes after talking to the two strangers at the corner table, but business had picked up at the start of the lunch hour, when people from the surrounding companies and apartment complexes stopped by to satisfy their midday sweet-tooth cravings, and with the influx of customers came a tidal wave of noisy emotions that battered away at me until I was forced to leave Teresa alone at the till again and have my second assistant Trevor, who had just clocked in, take over for me at the ovens as I fled upstairs to my studio apartment.

I spent a few minutes dry-heaving in the bathroom, hating that an ordinary day had turned into a bad one. I'd been doing so well, too; I hadn't been so distressingly overwhelmed by my empathy in _months_. I wasn't sure what about today had dialed up my sensitivity to the point where I was on the verge of a hysterical breakdown, but regardless of the cause it was clear that I was no longer functioning well at all.

It was with no small amount of disgust that I heaved myself to my feet and wobbled over to the rusted out medicine cabinet that was bolted to the bathroom wall. I yanked open the creaking metal door with shaking hands and surveyed my options.

After a moment of painful indecision and inner debate, I reached into the cabinet. I didn't spare a second glance for the aspirin, and similarly ignored the lithium tablets. I instead retrieved the little plastic bottle of benzodiazopines that sat at the back of the metal box. _Lorazepam_ , the faded and peeling paper label read. _Dosage: 1 mg_.

A wave of self-loathing washed through me, but I shoved it away. I had enough unmanageable emotions cascading through me right now; adding another one to the pile, especially such a negative one, was the last thing I needed.

Of course, I also shouldn't have needed to take a shrink-prescribed sedative that had been sitting unused in my medicine cabinet for almost a year, either, but there I was anyway, popping open the bottle cap and swallowing down two pills before I could second-guess myself again.

The effects didn't hit me right away, but a little over half an hour later the medication finally started to do its job, calming me down and numbing me to the emotions that were hounding my every step and strangling my every breath.

So what if my limbs suddenly felt unusually heavy and tired. So what if I was suddenly so dizzy that I was weaving on my feet. So what if my peripheral vision started to get a bit fuzzy and my depth perception seemed to go a little wonky.

My emotions were my own again, stabilizing even as I tottered over to my fold-out couch and plopped my ass down to avoid face-planting on the floor, and that was what I needed.

I sat on that couch for what felt like a very long time, but when I finally looked at my watch it turned out to have only been for an hour or so. After taking a few deep breaths and shoring up my mental shields, I stood up on legs that felt like spaghetti noodles but somehow held my weight and went back downstairs to the bakery.

“Sorry for ditching you,” I said apologetically to Teresa and Trevor as I returned to what I'd been doing before, tweaking a recipe for a strawberry frosting. “I just...needed a breather.”

The two of them looked at me, looked at each other, then nodded. And then they went right back to work, as if nothing unusual had happened at all.

I found myself unspeakably grateful for their easy acceptance of my clearly manic behavior. I wasn't sure if Marissa had spoken to them about my “episodes” as the doctors had called them, or if they were just naturally understanding of the fact that the chick who signed their checks was verging on batshit crazy; this hadn't, after all, been my first little meltdown at work, although it had been the worst one in some time, so maybe they just took it as one of those facts of life. Fact #1: The sky is blue. Facts 2 and 3: Rain is wet, fire is hot. Fact # 4: Athena Maeve O'Brien cannot keep her shit together.

Fact # 4 tends to depress me, so I re-routed that train of thought back to more inane musing about frosting versus icing, and which should I try on the mint cupcakes I was going to make over the weekend.

I still got distracted from time to time - _a woman came in to buy a slice of raspberry cheesecake and brought with her a flurry of hunger and irritation and anxiety, and two teenagers came in not long after that with lust and frustration surrounding them like a bubble of sexual tension so powerful that it_ _had made me want to sell them condoms instead of cherry almond scones_ \- but I managed to keep my focus on my work, although I would occasionally dart a look over at the two men in the corner, who had apparently decided to stay and wait to meet with Marissa after all. Under the numbing influence of the sedative, I wasn't able to pick up on their emotions anymore, not when they were so reserved. The state I was in right now, only the loudest emotions were going to penetrate the thick fog around my mind, which left me to try and figure them out through body language.

Which was hard as hell, because unlike Marissa I'd never been terribly good at reading the odd little social cues that people gave off. I'd never needed to read people that way, not when I could just feel what they were feeling.

But with my empathy currently buried under the fogginess from the lorazepam, I had no choice but to try and figure them out the old-fashioned way.

The first thing I noticed was that Teresa or Trevor must have brought them something to eat, because each man had a small plate in front of him. The part of me that gets easily sidetracked noticed that the plates weren't matching; the one in front of Xavier was from an older set that had a roses and butterflies pattern around the edges, while the plate in front of the Lensherr man had a funky geometric design in the center. It amused me, for some reason, that their plates didn't match, but when I tried to chase down the thought and the feeling behind it the idea slipped away, sliding into the back of my fuzzy mind.

I also noticed that Charles had a muffin while Erik had a scone, and that they seemed to be scribbling a grid of some sort onto a paper napkin. After a long moment of squinting (the blurry vision was probably the most annoying side effect of the lorazepam), I realized it was a crude sketch of a chessboard.

Which only added another layer to my confusion about the two of them. I'd been suspicious of what they wanted with Marissa, but surely two men who scribbled chess moves on a cheap napkin weren't _that_ dangerous.

Then I remembered the sharp gaze of the one Xavier had called Erik, whose watchfulness had reminded me of a wolf or maybe a mountain lion, and I told myself not to make assumptions like that; just because these two weren't causing trouble _yet_ didn't mean that they wouldn't make problems _later_.

I abandoned my observation session for a brief moment in order to pull a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies out of the oven and replace that tray with one with globs of dough that would soon transform into two dozen cookies full to bursting with three kinds of chocolate (the Triple Threat cookies, Marissa called them). Once I had finished setting the timer for the latest batch and checking in with Trevor who was doing the icing on a personalized birthday cake that had been requested for the next day, I returned to my bowl of experimental frosting on the counter, still peering over at the two men in the corner even as I tried to decipher the cramped handwriting on the recipe card I was working from.

They almost seemed like a couple at times, the way they were so focused on each other; even when they weren't making eye contact and were concentrating on the hastily constructed chess game between them, there was just some sort of indelible connection between the two men. It crackled in the air between them, an almost palpable force.

Some aggravation and affection leaked through my lorazepram haze and shimmied through a gap in my shielding, but I brushed the tendrils of emotion aside without too much effort; I didn't know for sure if those feelings came from the two men in the corner, and I didn't really want to know. Not only was I trying to keep myself separate from other people's emotions right now, but it felt...intrusive, somehow, to have a glimpse into whatever was going on between Charles Xavier and Erik Lensherr. Whatever was between them, it felt like more than the simply working relationship that the earlier conversation had implied.

 _Maybe I will go call Marissa after all_ , I decided. With her mutation, she'd be able to work out what the two men wanted quick as a blink. Besides, the sooner she got here, the sooner I could leave.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was writing this, I realized that Athena taking benzodiazopines as a coping mechanism will give her lots of chances of bonding with Charles, because benzodiazopines are highly addictive and she's going to need someone *cough* recovering-addict Charles *cough* to convince her that she doesn't really need them. Don't worry, though, she's going to get bonding with Erik, too, eventually. 
> 
> Anyway, Athena as a character is definitely going to get further development; underneath all the insecurity and emotional instability, she's a very intense person, and once Marissa and Kaylee end up in danger we're going to see a more bad-ass version of Athena, I think. She'll still have her manic/mood swinger moments, at least until she gets a better handle on her powers, but Marissa is sort of like her anchor, and she loves Kaylee like her own child, and those strong connections are going to go a long way towards grounding her. (Which is something I'm looking forward to, because as much as I adore Athena as a character even in her manic moments, it is downright exhausting to put myself in the proper headspace to do so. XD).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we have some of Marissa's perspective. Which is helpful because it lets me show Athena without actually having to put myself into the Athena headspace. XD

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Marissa wasn't sure what to expect when she walked into SweetHearts Bakery after parking her battered Oldsmobile down the block, but she was undeniably relieved to see that Athena was back in the kitchen area, fussing with some oddly colored batter and muttering under her breath about food coloring and natural flavors. It was normal behavior, and that was a good sign.

 _Could you maybe come into work early?_ her friend had asked over the phone, her voice friendly but tense as well, and Marissa's initial response had been worry, because Athena almost never asked that of her; she knew how much Marissa treasured her mornings with Kaylee, just her and her daughter and whatever game they'd decided to play until it was time to take her little angel to daycare.

She'd asked what was wrong, and her anxiety had only increased when Athena had said that a couple men were there wanting to talk to her; it was strange, certainly, but her worry mostly came from wondering how Athena was handling it.

She figured if her empathetic friend was calling her to come into work early, she probably wasn't handling it well. Or at least not as well as she would have liked.

 _I'll be there as soon as I can_ , she'd told Athena, and she'd finally arrived.

After catching Athena's eye and seeing the blatant relief on her friend's face, she nodded to herself and then turned to survey the rest of the room. The lunch crowd was just starting to thin out, which made it easier to spot the two men who could only be the mysterious strangers.

 _Erik Lensherr and Charles Xavier_ , Athena had said during their earlier phone call, her voice sounding slightly slurred on the R's in a way that made Marissa a bit concerned.

More concerning, though, was what those two men were doing here. She narrowed her eyes as she looked at them, taking advantage of the fact that neither one seemed to have noticed her entrance yet.

They were seated at a table in the corner, with the man in the wheelchair facing the pastry cases and front counter while his companion sat facing the door. They were both focused on something on the table between them, their heads bent forward with looks of intense concentration on their faces.

The one in the wheelchair was entirely bald, which struck her as interesting because he didn't seem old enough for that, nor did he seem the type to do it as a fashion statement; his suit was clearly some sort of designer thing and men who wore designer suits did not generally shave their heads until they hit their fifties and wanted to make an expanding bald patch a non-issue.

The other man also didn't look that old, although the way he carried himself, even when sitting down, spoke of a man who had decades of life experience and was more than comfortable in his own skin.

She wanted to peg them as being in their late twenties, maybe early or mid thirties at the most, but an itching under her skin made her unsure of that assessment; there was a sort of ageless quality to both of them, as if the experience and knowledge they carried went beyond something as simple as years gone by.

Taking a deep breath for courage, she stepped forward and crossed the room towards where they were sitting. To her pleasant surprise, Athena came around from behind the counter and joined her as she went, kissing her lightly on the cheek as they reached the corner table.

"Sorry to call you in early," Athena said apologetically, slanting an aggravated look at the two men before pulling over a chair from a nearby table for Marissa.

"It's fine," Marissa answered, sitting down and ignoring the prickle of discomfort that raced across her skin at the little lie she'd just told. Today, it seemed, her mutation was going to be a little more active than usual. She just hoped that meant she'd have an easy time picking up on any dishonestly these two men might show. "I'm sorry you had to waste your time waiting here," she added to Xavier and Lensherr, at the same time noting absently the slight tremor in Athena's hands as she pulled up a chair for herself.

 _Oh, dear_ , she thought suddenly. Shaking hands, slurred speech. The way Athena's gaze was slightly unfocused.  _Oh, you idiot, you took those damn pills, didn't you_. Marissa wanted to shake her, but refrained. She knew, deep down, that if Athena had taken those pills, the medication that her stupid ignorant psychiatric quack had given to her, then she'd been past the point of overwhelmed and well on her way to a full tilt manic episode. Logically, she knew that Athena did her best to avoid relying on those sedatives.

Emotionally, she hated that Athena felt a need to drug herself into a stupor so as to achieve some semblance of normalcy. She wished she could do more to help her friend, but her own gifts of lie detection and truth-telling were of little help in dealing with Athena's struggles.

Still, she would try. "Are you okay?" Marissa asked, ignoring for a moment the two men sitting at the table with them.

"I'm fine," was Athena's immediate response, and Marissa had to bite her tongue to hold in the curse she wanted to say.

 _I'm fine_ , Athena had said. Lie.

Marissa arched an eyebrow at her friend, and took a moment to gather up a bundle of worry and concern and who-do-you-think-you're-fooling and projected it to her friend; she knew that Athena would pick up on it even buried under the fog of her sedatives. Athena always knew what Marissa was feeling, always made sure to keep a metaphorical ear out for her emotions.

And sure enough, Athena wrinkled her nose as she caught the emotions Marissa had sent her way. She shook her head slightly and rolled her eyes, which Marissa interpreted as  _you worry too much._

Marissa let out a slight huff of annoyance that conveyed  _we'll talk about this later_ , then turned back to the men. "Sorry to have kept you waiting," she repeated, then held out a hand. "I'm Marissa Reynolds, co-owner of SweetHearts."

Charles Xavier reached out and shook her hand, the picture of gentlemanly behavior. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Reynolds. My apologies for disrupting your day, and thank you for agreeing to meet with us."

Marissa digested his words, found no lies in them, and decided to toss a truth of her own out there, to make it clear just where she stood right now. "I'm only here because Athena asked me to come," she told them, crossing her arms. "I'm not supposed to be here for another two hours, and having to come in early means I had to drop off my daughter at daycare before the usual time. I highly value the time I get to spend with my child," she continued, fixing both men in a stern glower, "so I'm sure you'll understand my irritation at losing that time to come here instead."

"We are very sorry about that," Charles said, and once again his words were sincere. "We're actually here to speak to you about your daughter, if that's alright."

Marissa felt rather than saw it when Athena stiffened beside her, could practically feel the tension radiating off of her friend in waves. It was actually reassuring; Athena was just as devoted to Kaylee as Marissa herself, and having that back-up for taking care of her daughter was something she would be grateful for unto her dying breath.

"What about my daughter?" she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral even as Athena began drumming her fingers on the edge of the table, a sign that what she really wanted to be doing was moving around.

"Your daughter," Xavier answered, pausing for a moment as if choosing his words carefully, "is very special."

Truth.

"Of course she's special," Marissa agreed. "She's my daughter. But you'll forgive me," she tacked on, "if I find the fact that a complete stranger also thinks so somewhat suspect."

Xavier gave a faint smile. "Yes, I agree, when put that way it does sound somewhat sinister, doesn't it? But I assure you, we mean your child no harm."

Truth.

But something here wasn't sitting right; Xavier was telling nothing but the truth, and yet there was still something he wasn't saying. A lie of omission, and it pricked at her nerves, making her edgy.

What  _weren't_ these men saying? Looking at them sitting there, calm and polite and waiting for her to say something more, gave her no answers at all. It was hard to get the truth from someone when they weren't saying much.

Marissa frowned, and sent a sliver of her confusion and frustration over to Athena.

Athena picked up on it, and gave a slight shrug, apparently also at a loss for what the hell was going on.

But she did put a voice to the question that Marissa wanted to ask. "What do you want with Kaylee?" she asked the men, fixing them in a fierce glare that made it clear, to Marissa at least, that the effects of her sedatives were beginning to wear off; an Athena still fully drugged wouldn't have been able to fix her gaze so intently on something. "Tell us what you really want," Athena went on, a faint lilting accent creeping into her tone as her temper rose, her own protective instincts regarding Kaylee seeming to manifest, "or so help me I'll toss your asses right out the door."

That response was apparently not what either man had been expecting from Athena, because Erik leaned back in his seat and gave her a once-over that seemed like more of a visual weapons search than any sort of appreciative glance, while Charles made a face like she'd kicked a newborn puppy in front of him.

Athena ignored both reactions and drummed her fingers on the table more impatiently. "You have thirty seconds to give us a decent answer," she said matter-of-factly, "before I bounce you out. I'll even given you a choice: through the door or out the window."

Charles looked over at Marissa as if hoping for a friendlier face.

Marissa kept her face carefully blank. "You heard her," she said flatly. "Tell us what you want with my daughter, or this conversation ends right now."

A slightly uncomfortable expression crossed Xaver's face, and Marissa suspected that if he weren't wheelchair-bound he would have shifted uneasily where he sat. "I'll gladly tell you whatever it is you want to know," he said, "but it's a conversation best had in a more private setting." He cast a pointed look to the other customers in the bakery and Teresa and Trevor behind the counter.

"We can't just kick them out," Marissa said indignantly.

"Why not?" Erik asked, looking darkly amused. "Your friend here just threatened to throw us out the window, surely she can shepherd a few patrons on their way."

"Said friend has a name," Athena remarked dryly, and only Marissa who knew her well could pick up on not just the strain underlying the sarcasm, but also the relief. It confirmed Marissa's early theory, that her friend had been struggling with her empathy more than usual today, and that definitely factored into her decision.

Closing up early would cost them some business, but if it got them answers from these two men while also making it easier for Athena to function...well, Marissa would do much worse things to secure the well-being of her closest friend and her only child.

Still, it was a co-owned business, making it a joint decision. "Closing up early is okay with you?" she asked Athena.

"Yes," her friend said immediately.

Truth.

Marissa nodded, and stood up, clapping her hands to catch everyone's attention as Athena crossed the room to speak with Teresa and Trevor in a low voice.

"Okay, everybody," Marissa said, speaking in her pleasant but firm customer service voice, "I'm sorry to interrupt your sweet treat time, but we need to close up early today."

A loud chorus of grumbles echoed throughout the room, and Marissa could tell from the way Athena's mouth tightened at the edges that the displeasure and annoyance coming from the customers was fairly intense. Which wasn't surprising, really; they didn't normally close the bakery until six or seven at night. Closing before even the afternoon crowd was finished was unfathomable.

"If everyone could please exit the bakery in an orderly fashion," Marissa pressed on, "we would really appreciate it. Thank you."

More grumbling, more heated this time, and Marissa began to worry that they'd have some sort of sugar-induced riot on their hands.

But then Athena was there, touching one man lightly on the shoulder before moving on to brush up against a skinny woman holding a cranky toddler. "We're really sorry to be bouncing you guys out like this," she said to their customers, and her voice and expression were so convincing that if Marissa didn't have her lie detection ability she'd have fallen for the lie, might have completely missed the tendrils of calm and acceptance that Athena was projecting to the disgruntled men and women who were shuffling towards the door. "Just come talk to me next time you're here," she added with a winning smile as she continued to carefully usher people out, "and I'll make sure to give you all something nice from behind the counter, okay? On the house."

That was, according to Marissa's lie-sense, the truth. And it didn't surprise her, really, because Athena did like to foist samples of her latest recipes onto whoever was at hand; having a slew of people entitled to free samples of something was undoubtedly a dream come true to the part of Athena that was simply a devoted baker.

Marissa breathed a sigh of relief when the last customer finally filed out, and watched as Athena carefully shut the door and flipped the sign to CLOSED. "Thanks," she said softly, understanding that Athena had used her empathy to smooth over their customers' unhappy feelings about the sudden exodus. It wasn't something Athena normally did, perhaps largely because she spent so much time being overwhelmed by all the feelings around her, but Marissa was grateful for the expedient intervention. Doubly so, because she knew that Athena had probably needed to concentrate twice as hard to project those feelings of calm and acceptance through the lingering haze that the drugs cast over her abilities.

"Anytime," Athena answered, and it was the truth. Then she turned to look back at their two remaining guests and arched an eyebrow.

Curious at her friend's expression, Marissa turned back around as well, and noticed that both Charles Xavier and Erik Lensherr were looking at them with expressions of realization.

"I see," Charles said, sounding pleasantly surprised, like he'd discovered a fifty dollar bill in the pocket of a jacket he hadn't worn in a while. "You're mutants, too."

Marissa blinked at him in surprise, then scowled. "How do you..."

"Ah, hell," Athena said, apparently picking up on something or making a connection that Marissa was clearly missing. "You're a telepath."

Truth, Marissa's mutation told her.

 _Well, shit_ , she thought.


End file.
